


Wrecked

by sahiya



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce was pretty sure it was because of the team that it’d been so long since he’d had a random, uncontrollable hulk-out - which was why it was so shocking to wake up alone and naked, in the smashed remains of what had been the Avengers’ living room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrecked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yamx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamx/gifts).



> This is my first ever Avengers fic. Hi, Avengers fandom! You are much bigger than my usual playgrounds. :-)
> 
> Thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading even though she doesn't know the fandom. :)

The thing was, Bruce had never thought of himself as _angry_ before the Hulk. The word most often used to describe him, in fact, was “bookish.” But afterwards there was _so much_ to be angry at, and it never really left him. 

These days, things were better. He had a job doing the sort of research he loved. He’d been decent enough at the whole _Médecins Sans Frontières_ thing, but it wasn’t really his calling so much as his penance. He’d never thought anyone would ever be crazy enough to hire him as a researcher again, but Tony Stark was crazy enough to hire him at twice what he was making before he managed to turn himself into a green rage monster, give him his own lab and a pretty much unlimited budget, and tell him to go to town. 

He had a home, too. He shared a floor of Avengers Tower with Steve, and Tony had actually lined the walls, floor, and ceiling of his apartment with adamantium, just to assuage Bruce’s fears of hulking out in his sleep and smashing through the walls of the apartment. He’d rolled his eyes, but he’d done it, and for the first time in years Bruce was able to rest easy. 

But more than the job or the home, it was having a _team_ that made the biggest difference. He’d never had a team before. He’d had people - labmates and colleagues - who he’d thought were his team. He’d collaborated on a few projects with them, and at the time it’d _felt_ like he was part of a team. But he realized now that none of them had ever really had his back. Bruce had always kept one eye out in case one of them was out to steal data or first authorship on their next paper. That wasn’t teamwork. When Clint jumped off a building, knowing the Hulk would catch him - that was true teamwork. 

He was pretty sure it was because of the team that it’d been so long - months, at least - since he’d had a random, uncontrollable hulk-out - which was why it was so shocking to wake up alone and naked, in the smashed remains of what had been the Avengers’ living room. 

He sat up slowly, taking stock. His brain felt gray and foggy, as it always did after an uncontrolled hulk-out. The memories of what had led to it were blurred; trying to get at them was like looking a picture behind a pane of glass that’d been smeared with grease. He remembered watching TV with Tony and Steve. He remembered the sudden spike of rage, the flood of chemicals in his brain, the rise in blood pressure and heart rate, and then the burn and tear as his muscles ripped themselves apart and re-knit themselves into the Hulk. 

Bruce cradled his head in his hands and tried to remember. What had he done? Who had he hurt? But the barrier between himself and those memories was even thicker. _What did you do?_ he demanded of the Hulk, who lay resting and acquiescent in the back of Bruce’s mind. The Hulk didn’t answer directly, but he did deliver up an image: Steve, crouched before him, shieldless, with his hands held up in a defensive posture while the Hulk roared. 

_What did you_ do _?_ Bruce shouted at the Hulk. _Steve isn’t an enemy, Steve is our friend. Steve is our_ teammate.

“JARVIS?” he said, speaking aloud for the first time, “is - are Tony and Steve both okay?”

“Yes, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS replied. “Neither of them sustained any injuries. They’re currently in the second kitchen. None of the other Avengers are presently in the Tower.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said. 

He realized he was shaking all over. Transforming, raging, and then transforming again caused the bottom to fall out of his blood sugar. Tony had developed a Hulk Shake, as he called it (bright green, because Tony Stark was an asshole), which evened him out, and it’d been a long time since he’d gone without it afterward. 

Well, he should either get the recipe to make it himself or learn to go without. There was no blood anywhere and the windows were still intact, but Bruce didn’t kid himself that that meant anything. They all put up with a lot from each other, but uncontrolled hulk-outs were beyond the pale. And even if the others had been willing to put up with it, Bruce himself wasn’t. He’d always known this moment would come eventually. Time to move on. 

But damn if it didn’t hurt.

Slowly, he got to his feet. His head spun a little, but he put one foot in front of the other until he reached the elevators. If they were both in the second kitchen, he could easily get to his room without seeing Tony or Steve. Good. He got into the elevator and punched the number for his floor. The motion of the elevator made his vertigo worse, and he leaned against the wall. 

The duffel bag he’d traveled with during his nomadic period lay discarded in the bottom of his closet. Once he’d put some clothes on, Bruce retrieved it and looked around his apartment. For a while after the Hulk, he’d stopped accumulating _stuff_ , knowing he’d just have to get rid of it when he moved on. But since starting to think he might stay in New York, he’d started buying stuff again. And he’d been _given_ stuff, too: the framed Van Gogh print Natasha had given him for his birthday, the vintage, mint-condition, still-in-the-box Dr. McCoy action figure Tony had found, the giant teddy bear Clint had won on Coney Island. Every Avenger had a matching bear, much to the chagrin of the guy running the booth. He didn’t want to leave any of it behind, but none of it would fit in the small overnight bag he held in his hand. 

Someone knocked at his door. 

Bruce froze. But he supposed that the minute JARVIS had known he was awake, Tony had, too. There was no point in hiding. 

He opened the door. Tony stood there, Hulk Shake in one hand, Steve just behind him. “Hey, big green,” Tony said. His eyes dropped to the duffel bag in Bruce’s hand. “Going somewhere?” Bruce shrugged. “Well, not without drinking your vitamins first.” Tony held out the shake.

Bruce took it, but he didn’t drink it. He looked at Steve instead and said, “Steve, I want to apologize. I don’t remember much, but I remember Hulk threatening you, and I’m deeply sorry.”

“Bruce -” Steve said.

Bruce didn’t want to hear it. After everything, he really didn’t want to hear Steve tell him he wasn’t welcome on the team anymore. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be out of here by morning.” He turned away to drop the duffel on the bed. He set the Hulk Shake on his nightstand. _Clothes_ , he told himself. _Passport. That’s all you need, Banner._

Behind him, there was a brief pause. Then Tony said, “I’m not one to say ‘I told you so’, Cap - no, wait, I _am_ one to say ‘I told you so’, and I _did_ tell you so.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve said mildly. “Bruce, please don’t do this. Neither of us is mad at you. We were . . . startled.” Bruce snorted. _Startled_. There was a word he’d never heard for describing people’s reactions to the Hulk. “But we’re not angry.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Bruce said, in as flat a voice as he could manage. “I thought I could control him. I thought, if things were better, I’d be less angry. But I guess that was a false hypothesis.” He turned and looked Steve in the eye. “It’s better for me to go. You have to see that.”

“I don’t, actually,” Steve said. 

“Look, Bruce, would you - oh my God, stop _packing_.” Tony snatched the duffel bag out of Bruce’s hands and tossed it aside. Then he put both hands on Bruce’s shoulders and pushed down until he sat on the bed. “People with low blood sugar don’t get to make life-altering decisions. Drink your shake, big green.” Tony thrust the Hulk Shake into Bruce’s face. Reluctantly Bruce took it. Tony glared until he sipped. “Good. Now listen. Do you remember why you hulked-out?”

Bruce frowned and sipped his shake again. “I don’t,” he said at last. “We were watching TV, weren’t we?”

“We were watching the news,” Steve said. “A special report came on, about . . .” Steve stopped, grimacing. “About human trafficking. Do you remember that?”

Bruce didn’t, but Steve’s words felt like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. “No, but that . . . makes sense.” He'd have rather left it at that, but he supposed he owed them an explanation. “I worked in this village in Bangladesh for a while. There were these girls, couldn’t have been older than thirteen. I paid them to run errands for me. One day one of them didn’t show. She’d just . . . disappeared.” No one would tell him much, but it wasn’t hard to figure it out. It was too late by then to do anything, of course. And what would he have done anyway? Find them and smash the place to pieces, probably kill all the kids in the process?

“Damn,” Tony said. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Bruce said with a sigh. “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t hulk-out over a news report.”

Steve frowned. “Some things are worth getting mad about, Bruce.” 

Bruce shook his head. “Not when you’re me.” Which was, in its own way, enraging. He couldn’t even get angry about things that warranted it. 

Tony sat next to him on the bed and looped his arm over Bruce’s shoulders. “I’m with Steve on this. Some things are worth getting mad about. And some things are worth _doing_ something about.”

Bruce looked at Tony. “What do you mean?”

“Have I mentioned the part where I’m a billionaire philanthropist?” Tony whipped out his phone and started typing with his free hand. 

Bruce blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“Telling Pep to start a new non-profit. We’re going to get into the anti-human trafficking business. Oh, don’t worry,” Tony added, when Bruce stared. “We’ll hire people who actually know what they’re doing. But we’ll need a spokesperson. Someone with name recognition and a personal connection to the issue. Gee, I dunno. Steve, do you know anyone like that?”

Steve’s lips twitched. “I’m not sure, Tony.”

“Hmm. That’s a shame. If we found someone like that here in New York, they could really make a difference, maybe stop this happening to any more kids.”

Bruce pressed his lips together. God _damn_ Tony Stark. “You’re a bastard.”

“Yep,” Tony said, cheerfully. 

“What if I hulk-out in the middle of a press event or something?” Bruce asked. 

Steve shook his head. “I think you’ll find that when you feel like you’re _doing_ something about the problem, it induces less of a blind rage. Anger comes from feeling helpless. At least, that’s been my experience.”

“What about the living room?” Bruce asked. “I saw it. It was wrecked.”

Tony shrugged. “I never really liked that sofa. Also, not the point. What do you say, big green? You in?”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. There were so many reasons not to. Next time, they might not be so lucky. Next time, he might not be in the Tower at all. But Tony’s arm, still looped around his shoulders, tightened briefly, and Steve smiled at him. 

He still remembered the face of the girl who’d disappeared. Bruce drew a deep breath. 

“Yeah. I’m in.”

_Fin._


End file.
